Empathy in Tragedy
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Finally I escape from the rowdy college football game! But as I near my car, I turn and find a player running down the lot seemingly in a panic. When I ask what's wrong... he begs me to take him to the hospital. So I do. .:. Kurtofsky multi-pt college!AU.
1. Part One

_Part One._

I slip unnoticed through the crowd, and it's impossible to hear even a single breath from my lips with the way the crowd is roaring and cheering for whichever of the two teams on the field they prefer. I can feel the thrum of the bass over the speakers of the stadium, and all I want to do is get out of here.

I'm shimmying between bodies, and thankfully, the crowd seems to dissipate the closer I get to the exit. I keep envisioning my car in the parking lot, sitting there patiently, waiting for me. It beckons to me, saying, "Here, here! I'm your escape, hurry up and come to me! Let's get away!"

I shouldn't have even come in the first place, I think as I shove past some screaming fan painted the colors of one of the football teams. I only came to support a friend, but halftime is over, and now so is their part in this game.

College football is so much messier than high school football. There are more players, more fans, more excitement, more food, more noise, and more movement. It's all a big, loud, electric blur, and not the good kind, the sort you feel while on a roller coaster. This lasts longer, and the way it is, it's closer to a form of torture to anyone who isn't part of the noise. Anyone like me, who doesn't care much about football and only cares about his friend in the university's marching band as part of the half-time show.

Sighing with relief, I finally break out of the last of the crowd and am pacing down the pavement of the parking lot. I could kiss the filthy ground, I'm so glad to be out of there. I had to endure the entire first half, and that was enough for me. Now I'm exhausted and ready to just be back in my safe, cozy dorm room.

I'm halfway to my park in the long stretch of parking lot when I hear the clatter of racing footsteps. I halt mid-step and pivot on my back leg to find one of the football players jogging away, headed down the row of cars one over from mine. Is he headed one of the cars? – But don't football players normally get bussed to the stadium? And how come this guy is leaving? – Should still be in the game? The second half only just started…

"Hey!" I call out, and start walking toward the line of cars separating us. "Are you all right?"

I probably shouldn't bother him – it's none of my business, really – but every time I see something out of place, I feel the need to help if I can. It's in my nature to look out for others, because no one ever looked out for me while I was in middle school and high school, and I don't want to be one of those people who stand by and watch from the sidelines when I could be out there, aiding someone who really needs it.

The footballer freezes in place, his spiked shoes squeaking momentarily on the blacktop. He blinks at me, sweat and dirt streaking his face, his uniform dirtied with grass and mud stains.

"Uh, no, actually. Could you give me a ride? I don't have money on me for a taxi, but I need to get to the hospital _fast_!" he guy shouts to me as he comes walking toward me. He looks desperate.

"Um, sure, I suppose. But you don't look injured, and they normally carry injured athletes out in a stretcher and load them onto an ambulance, don't they?" I say slowly, my mind trying to wrap around this bizarre situation.

"Yeah, yeah, but I'm not hurt, see? It's – it's my sister. I checked my phone during half time and found five missed calls and about ten texts from my dad. So, please? I need to go see my sister," the football player says in a rush, and he looks like he's on the brink of tears.

I swallow hard to stop my own eyes from tearing up. I can just barely imagine how he must feel. And I bet if e couldn't find a ride of some sort, he had been prepared to run the full – what, _nine,_ maybe _eleven_, blocks? – to the hospital. "O-oh, yes, of course. Come on; my car is right over there," I say, moving and pointing and watching as the smallest fraction of relief smoothes out his brows.

"Oh, God, thank you. Thank you do much," he replies, voice cracking slightly, and we quickly get into my car and buckle up onto to pull out straight away.

He smells like how he looks; sweaty, grassy, dirty. But the sweat is a clean, watery scent, and I used to cut the grass for my dad all the time, so the grass and mud thing doesn't bother me very much. I glance over at him every so often, and watch as he tugs off his shoulder pads and jersey and is left in a soaked white t-shirt. He's breathing a little heavy, and by the way his big hands are fumbling together and apart, I assume that he must be absolutely terrified for his sister.

"What's your name?" I ask softly, the silence in the car a little unbearable, especially when everything is frozen at a red light. "I see that it says 'Karofsky' on your jersey, but what's your first name?"

"David. Or, well, Dave. Everyone calls me Dave. Except my sister; she calls me Davey. I just. I'm so worried about her. She has never been very healthy, you know? She was one of those premature babies that always got sick and would sometimes go to the hospital, even as she grew older and stronger. She's fourteen, now, and in high school. She has friends, everyone seems to like her, and she's super nice, and just –" Dave rambles, and his nerves must be shot.

I reach over and gently touch his left hand where it's raised halfway in the air from his panicky gesturing. "Hey, it's okay. We're on our way to see her, and she'll be fine. You need to take a few deep breaths and calm your heart rate; I can fele your pulse in your fingertips."

"Uhg. You're right. Sorry," he mumbles, and grows quiet, shrinking in on himself, leaning back against his seat with a rather audible _shlump._ "I don't even know you, and here I am freaking out about it to you." He sighs heavily, and I feel so bad for him. "I just… I get scared, you know? She could die any one of these times that she goes in, and this time sounded especially bad. So what am I supposed to think?"

"Exactly what you are thinking," I answer. "It's normal. Don't beat yourself up about it. And if you like, I'll go into the hospital with you. I may be a stranger, but I think you could use the support," I tell him, and I'm being completely genuine. I want him to know that I'm willing to help him, and be there for him. Who knows? We could become friends over this. It would certainly be a nice change for me, since I haven't made any new friends at this college yet. The only friend I have is someone from my high school, Rachel, a band geek, the same one I was here for today. I was supposed to meet up with her after the game, but I might have to call her and cancel.

"You'd do that? I mean, I don't want to put you out if you had someplace to be –" he starts, but I shake my head and smile minutely as I keep my eyes on the road.

"I'd be happy to. It will put me at ease to know that you're all right, and so is your sister. So I insist."

"Oh, okay. Wow. Thanks," Dave replies, and I think he's the sort of person who doesn't have people do sincerely kind things for him very often. "Um… what's your name?"

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't say it, but I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel," I tell him, and flash him a small smile before I pull into the hospital parking lot and find the closest space I can to the front doors.

He offers me a charming smile in return. "Well, thanks, Kurt. Now let's get in there and see about my sister before I have a heart attack and wind up on the other side of the double-doors, huh?"

It's meant to be a joke, but neither of us can laugh as the sick, chemical smell floods around us the second we step into the building. Dave checks in with the receptionist and sends us up a level. Dave runs to meet up with his father in a waiting room.

I awkwardly stand off to the side and politely smile. Dave holds his football helmet and pads under one arm as he speaks frantically with his father. His father looks very solemn under his baggy eyes and small beard-lined mouth. He spies me over his son's shoulder and gestures my way. Dave glances back, as if he had momentarily forgotten about me.

Dave switches between calling me over and coming to get me for a second, and then decides that he might as well bring his father to me. "Dad, um. This is Kurt. He was in the parking lot when I left the game, and he gave me a ride."

"I am very thankful to you, young man," Mr. Karofsky says, and he takes one of my hands in his, and he looks much older than I know he must be – which is roughly 50, like my own father – and so very, very sad. "This is a difficult time for our family. My wife recently passed away, and our little Lilah is always so close to death's door herself. Thank you for understanding, and for helping my son be here."

"It was no problem," I whisper. I never thought I would be dragged into another person's life so suddenly and at such an odd point in my own life, but this is happening, and I can't help but feel like I'm supposed to be here today. "I never heard of a football player leaving a game and running, panicked, into the parking lot before, so I thought I would ask what was wrong. And… well, I'm glad that I did."

Mr. Karofsky smiles at me, clearly grateful. He turns back to his son, and his smile falls. "Speaking of which, is your coach going to hold this against you?"

Dave winces. "Sort of. He says that I'm one of his best linebackers, so he doesn't want me to run out on every game. I told him that I wouldn't, and that if it started happening too much, I would do him a favor and quit without taking the team down with me. Still, Dad, I don't know if I want to go back. It helped be vent for a while, but now it just makes me exhausted."

"But David, you can't throw it away like that; your sister is very important, but you're only at that university because of your football scholarship."

"Yeah, Dad, I know that, but… I need to be here for Lilah. She's all we have left."

I pretend that I'm not listening, even though I'm right here. I don't need to know about this part. And I don't want to, since it's beginning to remind me of my step-brother, Finn, and how he wasn't good enough of a quarterback to get a scholarship. And this kid a good player, but he's wasting it away because he's so worried about his family. And the fact that he lost his mother… it tugs on my heart more than it should because I lost my mom when I was about seven.

"I'm sorry for intruding," I say suddenly, and both of the Karofsky men look at me oddly. "I should really go."

"No," Dave says, catching my shoulder as I turn to walk away. He quickly drops his hand with a glance toward his father and shoves his hands into the pockets of his football shorts. "I mean… you said you'd stay as support. And I don't have any other friends here, so I could use one. So, um. Stay? Just for a little bit longer, if you can."

I purse my lips and nod dumbly. "A-all right," I murmur, and Dave shows me that soft, relieved expression again, and I have to stay. His father thanks me again for being so supportive, and soon, a nurse comes out.

"She's stable. Would one of you like to visit with her? She might not wake just yet, but I'm sure you're very worried," the woman says, and Mr. Karofsky nods in Dave's direction.

"Go on, son. I know you're dying to," he says encouragingly. Dave nods and rushes off, into the ward. To me, the middle-aged man turns and sends a gentle smile. "Did you only meet David today?"

"Yes," I answer quietly. "I haven't known him until now. But I think he's someone I would like to get to know. He seems like a good guy."

"He has his rough edges like most teenage boys, but you're right about that. He's a good boy at heart, and his sister brings out the best in him. He went through a bullying phase, however. Back in when he was still in high school. He got mixed up with some rude boys and started acting unlike himself. But I think he's straightened out. He has a temper, but it's nothing to be afraid of," he informs me as he moves to sit down.

I join him, looking questioningly at the man's face. "Why are you telling me this? I'm a stranger."

"Maybe. But maybe you're just the sort of friend he needs right now. You seem like a smart, good-natured boy; and I don't believe in coincidences. I think God sent you to David to be someone to help him through all this," Mr. Karofsky says, and when I look at him, his face is dead serious. "So, as a parent, I'm asking you: could you take him for coffee once this is over? Just to calm his nerves a little, and get to know him better."

"Sir, this is an awful lot to ask of a stranger, and I really don't believe in God or fate or–" I venture cautiously.

"I'm well aware of how much I'm asking, and I know not everyone is a believer," he says tiredly, sinking into his chair. "But you're the first kid I've met in a long while who seems to give a damn about other people and their feelings. You didn't have to ask my son what was wrong. You could have gone to your car and left. Or you could have denied him a ride since he _is _a stranger. Except you didn't. And you would be the only friend David will have who isn't a football player, and trust me when I say most of those boys are rather rough, and it's not a good influence for David, since he's generally a gentle boy."

"I understand," I console softly. "So I'll do it. But don't you think he should get a change of clothes before he gets a coffee?" I say, trying to joke a little.

It works; the older man laughs, nodding. "Oh, you're right about that. I thought of it, too, during the rush of bringing my daughter here. That's what the gym bag there is for," he replies, pointing down at the bag I hadn't noticed was under the seat next to him. "He can change and wash up in the bathroom, and then you two can leave and get his mind off of all of this. I'll pay for any gas you use today."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," I say hurriedly. "I-I mean, it's no big deal. But it would be nice if you gave him some money for the coffee."

"Right, right; of course," Mr. Karofsky chuckles, but he sounds so worn-out that I almost want to stop talking to him. But there's one thing I need to know.

"Mr. Karofsky… if you don't mind my asking, what is wrong with your daughter?" I ask very quietly.

His face grows long and woeful. "She's always been ill. She would get colds and the flu often, and her organs are rather slow on the job most of the time. And as it happens, this time, it's her liver. It's giving out on her, all because it's smaller than average size for someone her size and age. She might need a transplant, and who knows if she can handle that."

"Oh my," I whisper. I peer longingly at the doors for a moment, my heart clenching in my chest. "If she – if she dies, what do you suppose will become of Dave?"

"I don't like to think about it, because I honestly don't know," Mr. Karofsky remarks forlornly. "He could lash out or shut himself in. I don't know what he would do, and that's what worries me."

0o0o0

Dave is extremely shaky when he comes out of the ward. He soundlessly takes the gym bag his father offers him, and after a while in the bathroom, he comes out looking much more presentable in jeans and a polo than he had before, but I don't miss his red, puffy eyes. He must have spent a quarter of his time just trying to stop crying and keep his face looking normal.

"David? Why don't you go with Kurt for a while? I'll stay here with your sister," Mr. Karofsky suggests tenderly, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Yeah, sure. Okay," Dave murmurs, and his father stuffs some money into Dave's hand. "She talked, you know."

His father goes still. "She did? What did she say?"

"She was weak, but she told me not to worry. She said that whatever happens, it will be because it was meant to happen. She said that she'll be okay if she can't get a donor in time or if we can't pay for it because at least she'll go to where Mom is." He makes a choking sound before clearing his throat. "I told her that it won't come to that, and that we love her and need her to fight. She needs to try to stay as long as possible. She's too young to think about stuff like that. But she just smiled and fell asleep again."

Mr. Karofsky instantly wraps his arms around his son and pats him on the back a few times. Then he releases him and forces a smile. "Go get some coffee; you look like you could use some. But get the good stuff, not the coffee in the machines here. All right?"

"Yeah," Dave mumbles, and he sniffles, rubbing his eyes, and turns to me. "Let's go."

I nod curtly and start pacing down the hall, toward the elevator. Once the doors close and I select the ground floor, Dave's demeanor changes. He hardens and puts on a mask. It startles me, because up until this point, I had only known him to be… well, _vulnerable. _And now all I can think is: _his father was right._

"Kurt, do you have any siblings?"

I clear my throat and watch him carefully. He isn't looking at me; he's looking directly ahead, at the elevator doors.

There's a chime and suddenly they're open, and we're steeping out, conversion flowing as steadily as our footfalls. "Yes. Well, sort of. I have a step-brother."

"Did you grow up with him?" Dave asks, his tone ever flat.

I don't like this. "Mostly. Our parents married when we were in seventh grade, so he's been my brother for about six years, give or take a few months." I swallow. "I love him as if he were my blood-brother, though. He's always there for me. He makes mistakes often, but he always fixes them again. And he cares about me."

"So if he ever got sick, or if he were dying, or if you were in any position like mine, you would do whatever you could to save him and make him well, wouldn't you?" Dave challenges, and he's taking long strides out in the cloudy sunlight, and it unnerves me to see him like this, because I don't know him yet, and thus, don't know what he's capable of. His father dud say this Dave was once a bully… what if I answer incorrectly and he gets violent? People are unstable when they're grieving.

"I would," I say softly. We reach my car and I unlock it hastily with the remote on my keys. Dave waits for me to get in first, then follows suit. He doesn't buckle up straight away, not even when I start the engine. So I wait.

He nods firmly. "Yeah, I thought so. Good; that's… good," he mutters, and soon, he's buckling himself in and I'm driving toward a Starbucks.

"Dave… please don't tell me you're planning something drastic for your little sister's sake," I pose with a hiss.

"That's none of your business, even if I am," he retorts almost coldly.

Anger suddenly flares up in my gut. I grit my teeth and force myself to focus – I can't whip my head to the side to glare at him; I have driving to do, and this is a _city, _above all – but my words aren't help back, and neither is my tone. "Are you _stupid? _It became my business when you got into my car in the stadium parking lot! I'm in this with you, now, whether you like it or not. And your father asked me to be your friend through all of this, to keep you level-headed, and goddammit if I'm not going to keep my word!"

I can feel his gaze on my profile, intense and white-hot. I feel the flush of adrenaline run through me, and I screech to a stop when I park the car in front of the Starbucks.

"So my dad put you up to this, then? Is that it?" he growls, slamming my car door. I would yell at him for being rough with my baby, but I ignore it and choose to focus on the larger issue here.

"If you must know, he _asked _me to, and I _accepted, _because I feel bad for you. If it were me in your shoes, I would want someone by my side to help guide me and keep me upright since my weary father can't do everything for me. Don't think that taking this matter into your own hands will make everything peachy-keen again; it will only make things _worse!"_

"Would it?" Dave throws back at me, and we aren't even moving toward the coffee shop. We're just standing outside in the chill of autumn on either side of the front hood, yelling at one another. I don't want to be yelling, but it seems the only way to hold Dave's attention. And he seems as stubborn as an ox, just like my own father. "Because to me, it seems a lot like being helpful if I get my hands on the donor list and find a way to bump my sister's case up to the top, since it's plenty urgent. She's just a _little girl. _Some of the other people who need their livers fixed are old and have lived their life. But my sister, Lilah? She's _fourteen. _She still have her whole life ahead of her! And I'll be damned if I let God take that away from her!"

I reel back, shell-shocked by his speech. He's breathing heavily, face pink, and soon, he collapsing onto the hood on my car, his face buried in his hands, his elbows pressing into the metal.

"Dave…" I say as warmly as possible as I make my way around the front of the car to place my hand on his back, over his denim jacket. "You have find a little more hope than that. I know things look grim – it did when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and died not a year later – but your sister is different. She's lived this long, which means she's always combating the illnesses thrust upon her. So this time, you need to trust her and the doctors and be patient, like your father."

He slowly lifts his head and looks up at me, his eyes pink and hazel and glazed with tears and kind of beautiful. My heart thuds a bit louder than usual and I retract my hand from rubbing his back. I don't want to freak him out; I'm trying to be comforting, not flirtatious. So I look away and clear my throat.

"Okay?"

"…Yeah. Okay," he mumbles, and soon he's wiping his tears and shoving his hands into his pant pockets. "Let's get some coffee. I could go for some now."

We head inside and after we get our orders and sit down, we start talking about normal things. He mentions sports and his team and games, and I listen. I talk about my best friend Rachel and band and choir and drama club, and he listens. We find that we can agree on most things: foods, music, movies. But we disagree on a lot of other things, like drinks and TV shows and which albums are better for the bands we said we both liked. But as we sit here and talk for a good hour and a half straight, even after our coffee is gone and we're practically loitering with how long we're staying at our tiny table, I realize something: he reminds me of some of the guys I knew in high school. Some of the guys who were in choir who I was somewhat friends with, and that's an oddly placed comfort to me.

"So you were at the game today because of Rachel?" It amuses him for some reason. "You didn't even watch the game or cared who won?"

"Nah," I reply, shrugging. "I only cared about supporting her. She's the lead flautist. She even had a short solo in the number they played at half-time. But her real talent lies in singing. I wish they would have let her sing at half-time instead, but I think the woman in charge is jealous of her, and that's why she never lets Rachel sing. 'She's just a band member,' she told me once when I asked her about it. 'She's meant to play, not to sing.'"

"Didn't that piss you off?" Dave asks, frowning.

"Of course it did! And I protested it and everything, and even spoke to higher authorities about it, but there was nothing they can do. She's the director of the half-time shows for all the home games, and what she says, goes," I sigh. I stand up and gesture out the window. "Anyway, I think we should head back. Maybe something happened."

"No, my dad would have texted or called if anything had," Dave replies lowly. He holds up his phone. "And I would know if he had. I've been holding this since we sat down."

_Poor guy,_ I think. _He's a mess over this ordeal. But I can't say I blame him; if Finn were sick like this, I would be even more paranoid. Dave actually is holding together pretty well._

"But you're right, Kurt; we really should get going. That barista over there keeps glaring at us. I think he wants us to get the Hell out of _his _coffee shop," Dave says with a hint of humor, a smile barely reaching his lips.

I offer a short laugh and gather up my (rather fashionable) coat. "Yes, I believe I saw that. But where will we go? Back to the hospital after all?"

"I just want to go home. I'm tired. But you can drive me back to the hospital anyway, 'cause I should be going home with my dad once he's ready. Thanks for everything, though, Kurt. And, uh, before I forget… can I have your cell number?"

"Yeah, of course!" I exclaim, nearly forgetting about that tidbit myself. "Here, let's swap. You know how to work an iPhone, right?"

"Yeah, my dad has one. Sorry, but mine's just a little Samsung with a sliding keyboard. But it's simple enough."

We program our numbers into each other's phones in seconds, and then hand them back with a smile. But I can't help but notice a name near where mine shows up in his contacts list… a name with a block symbol beside it.

"Um, Dave? I don't mean to pry – it's just something I noticed off-hand – but you have someone blocked on here? Why?" Because I never block anyone. I never even have a reason to. No numbers that contact me are anyone but my friends, people I _like _and would never ignore, and especially not on purpose.

Dave's face falls from a smile to what I can only relate to the expression one makes when one of their secrets is discovered in the worst imaginable way. "Oh. Um. It's no one, just a friend of mine that wouldn't stop bugging me, so I ditched him, but he still tried to call me, so I blocked him. It's no big deal, you know? It happens," he says in a suspicious rush, snatching back his phone. "Uh, anyway. Let's get going, yeah?"

"Yeah," I agree slowly. I drop the subject and put on the radio in the car to drown out the sound of our awkward silence. When we part at the hospital, Dave hurries into the building and doesn't even acknowledge the brief wave I send his way.

-0-


	2. Part Two

**A/N: If the pacing of events feels a little rushed, I apologize in advanced. This is simply because I do not plan for this to be longer than five or so chapters, and because of that, I have to skip over the "grace period" of fillers of everyday life and perfectly realistic timing with when which certain things happen. But I promise you that it won't soil this fic too much in the long run. ;)**

**With that said, I hope you all enjoy this next installment and don't mind the flow too much. C:**

* * *

><p><em>Part Two.<em>

When my cell phone rings to my general tune of Beyoncé's "Love On Top," the last person I expect to see on my caller ID is the strange hard-luck-case boy I met three days prior.

I have an odd smile on my face as I think, _I really need to find a personalized ringtone for him, because having that song associated with his calls, even if it's my default ringtone, just feels weird._ I pick up the call a ring short of going to voicemail. "Hello?"

"I'm not a match. Why the fuck aren't I a match? She's my sister for Christ's sake!" Dave grits out between clenched teeth, and I have to hold the phone away from my ear for a moment to turn down the volume.

"Easy, Dave, easy. Slow down and try to say that again, please; I have a growing headache from too much mathematics and can't seem to grasp what you mean," I sigh, raising the phone to my ear once more.

There are a few deep breaths on the other end of the line, and then, "My dad and I had some tests run to see if we could be matches for my sister's liver. Ours are big enough, since we're full-grown, to lend her a big enough chunk to help hers regenerate and work fine again. But we both tested negative. I don't understand why; we're her family! How come we aren't a good enough match for her?" Dave reiterates, and finally I understand.

"Oh, my," I say softly, barely above a gasp. "I'm so sorry, Dave. But… these things do happen. Genes are very complicated; you could have more of your father's genes, and she could have more of your mother's, and because of that, both you and your father could be a wrong match."

"Shit. I thought that might be it. I should've known, though; I have a different blood type than her, and mine ain't the kind that is easily shared. But, I dunno… I was hoping that she could accept part of my liver anyway," Dave laments in a tired, defeated mumble. I feel so bad for him. I wish there was something I could do.

I nod sympathetically and switch ears, pinning my iPhone under my left ear with my shoulder while I start up my vacuum; my dorm room has seen cleaner days, and I'm trying to remedy that.

"Is that… a vacuum in the background?" Dave snorts, purposely changing the subject. "Doing a little cleaning, huh? I usually make my roommate do that for me."

"Well, I am not as lazy as you, then," I scold, pushing the vac under the rim of my bed. "I like everything where it should be; it makes studying that much easier. And, well. I needed an excuse to do _something _to avoid the remainder of my math homework. I really do hate that I couldn't test out of taking the gen ed for math."

"Sucks for you, man, 'cause I did. It was a piece of cake. – But it could be because I was in calculus and pre-trig in high school," Dave brags, and I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

"Uhg! I hate you," I retort with a groan, "Because that is _so _not fair. Why must so many suffer with math while so many others are so gifted at it? It's a conspiracy, I tell you. A conspiracy of the genetic, academic sort."

"…Sort of like the genetic conspiracy against me and my sister," Dave mutters.

"Oh. _Oh. _Dave, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to remind you of that so soon –"

"Nah, it's fine. It's my deal, and I just can't seem to get over it right now. But that's why I called you, I think. You're…" he struggles for a moment, sighing, "Well, you're the only person who knows about the situation right now. I'm trying to keep my coach and teammates out of it so not to stress them out. We have games to win," Dave says, and I can tell that he's trying to shrug it off, but it isn't working very well.

"Isn't there… I mean, don't you have other friends you can confide in?" I offer quietly, a note of something sorrowful in the backdrop of my tone.

"…No," Dave answers slowly, and I imagine him shaking his head, his voice is so low. "My only friends are on the football team."

That's… _sad._

I clear my throat. "I see. Then it's fortunate we met, isn't it?" I say with as much uplifting spirit as I can manage.

"I guess. But it feels wrong. It's like I'm just dumping my life on you out of nowhere, and we haven't even really hung out for longer than an afternoon so far. I'm a lousy friend already."

"No, you're not!" I say hastily, and I have to quickly come up with a reason why. In a sense, he's correct; he's asking for comfort instead of offering anything positive. But some friendships don't start off all smiles and sugarcane. Some friendships start off just like this one: with salty tears and plenty of pain. "You're just… in a rough spot. And I'm supposed to help bring you out of it. I think that's why we met, Dave."

He sighs. "Yeah, whatever. If you say so, Kurt. But, uh. I guess I do want to hang out again. Is today okay? I need something to get my mind off of my failure to help my sister. Because now we really do have to put her on the list and wait for a match to show up. And I hate waiting. Especially when it's _this _kind of waiting."

"I understand," I whisper. "It hurts, and as much as you want to do something, you can't, so you feel useless. But it isn't your fault, and to remind yourself of that, you need a distraction. I remember how that goes. That's how I was…" I nibble my lip. "…When my mother died."

"Yeah," Dave whispers in reply, "Me too." He seems to stiffen up and mend his tone. Lighter, he asks, "So, how about a movie? DVD or theatre, I don't care which."

"I haven't been to the theatre in a while; let's go there," I say with a slight smile. I smother the tiny thought in the back of my mind that brings up the word 'date,' because friends can go to the movies, too; it's no big deal. And just because I'm gay doesn't mean any guy I meet is, so I need to smother the thought before it even arises. "There's a new flick out I've been meaning to see anyway."

"Please tell me it's something I'll like," Dave teases, "Because as we discovered at Starbucks, we often disagree on movie genres."

I laugh a little. "No, it's nothing we disagreed on. You'll be fine with this one, I think."

"Cool. So I'll meet you there soon?"

"Yes. In fact, let me check the show times on my phone for a minute, and I'll tell you exactly how long we have," I inform him. In seconds, I'm listing off the soonest snow times, and we're choosing one that starts an hour from now, and then everything is settled.

Dave sounds genuinely relaxed, now. "See you there, Kurt!"

"Yeah, you too," I reply. After I hang up, I finish vacuuming, and then proceed to gather up my jacket and car keys.

My math homework can wait. A friend needs me. And I could use a diet soda and some Skittles, too, which means that everyone wins.

0o0o0

I realized halfway through the film that I want to see a movie with Dave again soon, because he makes for the best movie companion. He will lean over and whisper little remarks that time out perfectly between dialogue or during certain slow scenes that make me smile or even chuckle under my breath. And when I went to the bathroom at one point later on, he perfectly filled me in without my having to ask him to. And when the film ended, we had an intelligent conversation about it, witty jokes included, as we walked out to our cars.

"I always get so confused when I exit the theatre and it's still daytime. I'm like, 'whoa, the sun is still up? Weird!'" Dave remarks offhandedly as he unlocks his car, parked diagonal from mine. "I'm so used to going at night or at sunset and am in a dark room for the movie for so long that I forget the times when I do go during the day, you know?"

I laugh airily. "Yes, I know what you mean. I was thinking the same thing." I unlock my own car and am just about to slip inside of it when I notice that Dave is walking over to me. I stand up again, my knee resting on the seat while I grip the door. "What is it?"

"Hey, um," he begins, and he looks a little unsure of himself. "I was just going to go say hi to my sister… They're keeping her at the hospital until we find a donor for her, so I don't get to see her as often. But, uh. Anyway. I wondered if you want to come along and meet her? Since she's kind of the reason why we met," Dave requests.

"Oh, of course! I would love to," I respond automatically. "Do you mind if I stop somewhere first? I'd like to get her some flowers."

"Oh, yeah, she'd love that," Dave says brightly. "That's cool of you. I'll go on ahead and wait for you in the lobby of the hospital. But, um – don't get anything like pussywillows or baby's breath. My sister's allergic to those."

"Duly noted," I say. "Thank you, because I might have gotten the latter of those as an accent."

"Yeah, thought so. Those two are common bouquet fillers, my dad says. Which sucks for poor Lilah. Anyway, see you again soon," he says, and starts to walk away, back to his car.

I get into mine and sit there for a moment, engine thrumming, while I think of which flowers she might like. Carnations and roses are always lovely, and they smell great, but her name is reminiscent of lilies… Hmm. I think I'll just choose a colorful bunch to cheer her some. That will do.

I purchase a twelve-dollar bouquet in a small, purple vase at a grocery store's floral section. It has plenty of pinks, soft yellows, and purples in it, with accents of various greens because of the leaves and stems. There are carnations and daffodils and a few tiny roses and a lily or two. Its fresh scent fills up my car as I make my way downtown to the hospital, driving past the stadium along the way.

Once I step into the lobby, Dave smiles at the bundle of arranged flowers in my arms and guides me up a level to his sister's ward.

I'm not entirely sure what I expect her to look like. Both Dave and his father are bulkier men and they both have dark hair and dark eyes. But when I enter that room and I see this small, blonde, green-eyed girl lying in the bed, her skin tinted faintly yellow, I realize that I hadn't expected _this._

It makes sense, genetically. Their mother must have been blonde, and she must have had green eyes, which accounts for Dave's hazel ones while his father's are merely brown. As I egt closer, I see flecks of brown in Lilah's eyes as well. She looks so happy to see a new face, and even happier when I pull from behind my back the gift I brought.

"Are those for me?" she breathes, and her voice is young but already matured, the voice of a little woman. "Thank you so much." She sits up, wincing a bit with a hand to her abdomen, and reaches out for them.

I hand her the little vase and watch as she buries her nose in the petals, inhaling.

"I love flowers," she whispers, and I wonder if her illness is what's holding back her volume, or if it's any medication they might be giving her (although I doubt it's very much; her liver can't process well, after all). "They're like nature's little gems. They're beautiful and they usually smell so wonderful."

"I thought you might like some. Hospitals can be terribly bland – all white – and reek of medicine. Plus, it's a peace offering; we've never met, and I like making good impressions," I tell her.

Lilah smiles, sending Dave a brief look. I want to glance behind me and see why, but Dave makes it so I don't have to; he swoops around my side and sits in one of the chairs left beside her cot. "Yeah, um. He's the guy I was telling you about, the one who drove me here when I got the news during the game."

"Yeah, I thought so. You're Kurt, right?" Lilah says, blinking her green eyes at me. She smiles tiredly. "Or, as my brother described you, 'Kurt, this really fancy-dressed kid who you're totally gonna like.'"

Dave hides his face. A little angrily (but I can tell it's a guise for embarrassment), he snaps, "I didn't say that! Quit making things up, Lilah!"

She laughs – a gentle sound, because I can tell that it hurts her to do so if she does it too heartily – and shakes her head, patting her older brother on the arm. "I was just teasing, Davey. I think your friend Kurt is really sweet, and a lot more thoughtful than you. Where are _your _flowers for me, huh? I've been in here for days, and even Daddy's brought me a rose!" Lilah scolds, and she leans over slightly to flick her brother's nose.

"Ouch! You little brat," he retorts, but there's a smile on his lips. "You're so sweet to everyone at school and to every adult you meet, but you're the devil around me," he mutters. "I outta –"

"Oh, but you wouldn't hit your poor, sick, scrawny freshman of a sister, now, would you~?" she says almost wistfully, a smirk well hidden on her face.

"You know Dave, I really like your sister," I say with a smile of my own. "She's spirited. She doesn't even let her liver bring her down."

"Not at the moment, nope," Lilah replies, turning her attention to me. There's a second as she does so when her face is half-tilted toward me, and she looks suddenly more matured than fourteen, and I have to blink and look again, and of course the moment has passed. But for that split second, it makes me ache, because I think two things: I wonder if Dave and his father see their mother and wife in those same split seconds, and I pray (something I never do) that she lives through this, because I want to see her grow up to be that age, whatever it looked like to me (perhaps in her twenties?).

It would be torture, I realize as an afterthought, if I had a sister and I constantly saw my mother in her. Carole, my step-mom, is wonderful, and I wouldn't trade her for the world, but there is, naturally, something about my birth mother that I wish I could get back. And if I had a sister… I don't know. But I'm beginning to feel this odd attachment to Lilah, a compulsion of sorts, that makes me want to care for her and about her as if she were that sister I never had.

"Hey, Kurt?" she says. "You look dreamy-eyed. Are you thinking about something?"

I conjure up a smile to my lips. "Yes, but nothing important; just little musings."

"Maybe you can share them with my brother," she snorts, "Because he doesn't muse over anything. At all. _Ever."_

"What're you talking about? I get straight A's!" Dave retorts. Then he makes a face. "Well… A's and high B's."

Lilah laughs lightly again. "I know, I know, but you have, like, zero common sense, and you totally never think before you act, and you never get lost in thought like that. I wish you would; it might do you some good." She looks to me again, and her own eyes look a little dreamy, like she's thinking as deeply as I had been. Then, "Kurt, if you had met Davey in high school, or in class, or any other way than because of my sickness, do you think you two would have been friends?"

"What's that all about?" Dave cuts in before I have time to ponder the thought. "Quit being so weird. Does it even matter?"

She shakes her head. "I guess not. He's just… not like your usual choice in friends, that's all. And I know it's because you met him by chance and got a ride, so it makes me wonder if you two would have even spoken to each other at all otherwise, you know?"

I smile at that last bit. She says 'you know?' on occasion after an idea, like her brother does. I see her point, though, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I had been wondering the same thing. I nod my head. "I thought of that. And to tell you the truth, I was never friends with the jock type either. I sort of became friends with a few of them in high school because of my step-brother, Finn, but even then it was only a few boys from his team who I met and remotely liked enough to stick around and talk to. So, to answer your question: no, I don't think Dave and I would have been friends otherwise."

Dave sends me this look that is almost… hurt. And I can't place why; it makes sense, doesn't it? And he's right, too, because it doesn't matter, because we are friends now.

Dave rolls his shoulders and leans back in his chair. "Yeah, I guess so. Because, uh." His face twists into something uncomfortable, and his voice drops to a mumble, "Kurt, you're sorta… kinda the type of kid I would pick on in high school. For a while, anyway. I stopped when I was a senior because I knew better by then, but still. I would… bully kids like you." He looks away from us both, and Lilah slowly, sadly nods.

"What's that supposed to mean, 'kids like me?'" I ask, suddenly flustered.

Lilah looks over at Dave, sees that he won't answer, and rolls her eyes. She looks at me with kindness and says softly, "He means boys who give off the appearance of a stereotype. I'm sorry if I'm wrong, but even to me you look a little… And, well, your voice sounds a little…" she drifts off, probably afraid to offend me.

I sigh dejectedly and nod. "_That. _Okay, I see what you mean. And as reluctant I am to admit it, I do somewhat fit the stereotype of a homosexual. My high voice, my girlish face, my designer label clothes, my perfectly coiffed hair. Yes, I am well aware of what I look like," I say carefully, "But I'm not ashamed of it. I was one of the only kids in my school who was gay, and I was proud to be it because at least that meant I broke the mold. And while I disapprove of the fact that David bullied gays like myself, I'm glad that he at least learned his lesson and doesn't seem to judge anyone the same way any longer."

"I don't! I mean, I didn't really like to in the first place – I just did it to stay friends with this guy, Azimio, who I've known almost my whole life – but yeah, I mean, I don't do that anymore. It's stupid and childish and cruel and I know it," Dave replies hastily. He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably.

Lilah looks at him and then back at me. "You… haven't told him yet, have you? I guess you were easing into it since you only just met, but that doesn't mean you should keep secrets, Davey."

"It's not a secret, I just don't think it's a big deal," Dave hisses back, and I blink in confusion at them both.

"What? Tell me what?" I frown. I really don't like being ekpt out of the loop.

"My brother here, he's –"

"Would you like some water, Lilah? You look really thirsty. I'm going to go get you some water. Do you want some, too, Kurt?" Dave blurts, standing up suddenly. He sends his sister an angry, 'don't-you-dare' sort of look before forcing a small smile my way.

"Um… sure. Water would be nice," I say slowly, and I don't understand what he's so uncomfortable with discussing. Was it something I said? Because if I hadn't, Lilah wouldn't have been bringing whatever-it-is up…

"Cool. Be back soon," Dave says, and in a rush he's out of the room and down the hall, the door slowly shutting behind him.

Lilah turns to me, and I bring my eyes back to her. She shakes her head. "He doesn't like talking about it. I think it's partially because of the bullying he used to do. And maybe I should wait for him to tell you, but I think you ought to know: my brother's gay, too. He's been Out since he started college. All his teammates and classmates know, and I thought you should as well, since you're his new friend." She frowns, puzzled. "I don't know why he didn't say anything… usually he does. Since he started college, he's told everyone he's met just to get it out of the way and spare them from figuring it out later. He doesn't like to lie about it anymore, so he chooses to tell people first and see if they stick around afterward. Most do, which I think is good for his confidence in accepting himself. But my poor brother… for some reason, he didn't want to tell you yet."

This makes his bullying of gays all the worse in my mind. What, he couldn't accept it about himself and wanted to stay friends with someone so badly that he felt the need to harass those in the same boat as him? …But maybe I shouldn't be too hard on him, because there was a time when I was in the closet, too. Regardless, it bothers me a little. If he could tell by looking at me that I'm most likely gay, why didn't he say anything? He has all the time in the world between our hours at the Starbucks a few days ago and now. He could have mentioned it casually, or asked me politely if I was gay too, or _something. _

But I shouldn't hold it against him. I didn't tell him outright that I'm gay, either. We both didn't want to ruin what was starting between us, I suppose.

Dave returns with two water bottles in hand and a Gatorade in his pocket. He looks immediately at his sister.

"Yes, Davey, I told him. I don't know why you hadn't yet, but I thought it was a little something about you that he should know. And look, he's totally fine with it, like I knew he would be. You had nothing to worry about," Lilah says sweetly, and he hands her a water bottle. She cracks it open and sips it delicately while looking between us. "Why didn't you say anything, either, Kurt? You seem like the kind of guy who would say right off the bat, 'I'm here and I'm queer and if you got a problem with it, then screw you.'"

I make a face. "Not exactly. I wanted to say something, but – well, no offense Dave, but you're a little intimidating when it comes to approaching you with a subject as tender as sexuality. And honestly, I thought you might have guessed by the way I looked anyway, and I didn't want to mess things up. I do want to be your friend, and sometimes, mentioning sexual orientations is the best way to lose one."

He nods. "Yeah, I know. And that's kind of why I didn't say anything, either. I wanted to, because it seemed like you wouldn't care, but, I dunno… I guess I wanted to see what it would be like if we just got to know each other first. Because if two gay guys meet… I dunno, it just feels like everyone expects them to automatically just… hook up or something."

"Davey, you're blushing a lot," Lilah giggles. She sighs and leans over – moving slowly, I notice – and plants a kiss on his cheek. "It's okay, bro. But you do realize that if you _just so happened _to want to date Kurt anyway, he might say yes, right?"

Now I'm the one blushing. "Lilah, please! I don't think –"

She smiles and returns to her usual spot on the bed, lying down again. She yawns. "I was just teasing. I like to make my brother blush; he's cute when he does it. Sorry if I embarrassed you, too. I just think it's sweet, that's all. It would be no different if he were straight and you were a girl. – Actually, before he came out to us, I would tease every friend of his that was a girl, saying they should date. Didn't I, Davey?"

"She really did," he sighs. "She's a sucker for romance, that's why. She's hooked on teen love stories in both movie and book form."

"Darn tootin' I am," Lilah grins. "And I can't wait to be whisked away by my first boyfriend, either. And I think that day will come." Her smiles falls. "I know I said… what I said about being with Mom…" she says quietly, "And I meant it to an extent, but I really don't want to die, Dave. I… I want to live and have love and everything," she confesses, and tears start to well in her eyes, and Dave looks away.

"I know, Lilah," he says in the gentlest voice I have ever heard come from his mouth, "I know." He strokes her head, brushing the hair from her face, and I feel a little like I'm intruding on a tender family moment.

I go to stand, feeling like my visit here is over with (and Lilah is looking rather worn out), but Lilah stops me for a second. "Kurt, c'mere."

"Yes?" I say, moving around to the other side of the small bed. Dave leans back and lets me lean over her.

"I wanna tell you a secret."

"Okay…" I whisper, and I tilt my head near her so she can speak into my ear.

She grips my shoulder, her fingers cold. First, she says with a smile in her voice, "Well, now you need to tell me which shampoo you use, because I want to smell this nice." Then, after a pause, she says seriously, "Look after my brother, please. He likes you, I can tell, and he'll need you, because he acts all tough on the outside, but he's nothing but a big teddy bear on the inside, and I know how hard it is for him to see my like this. I'm scared, and he's even more afraid because I look scared, if that makes any sense. So just… keep an eye on him, okay? And ask him to hang out with you a lot."

I pull away as she releases my shoulder. She smiles again and closes her eyes.

"Now get out of here, you two. I need a nap."

"Sure, Lilah," Dave mutters, and he's taking his Gatorade out of his pocket and walking out of the room in no time. I follow suit, glancing back at Lilah's relaxed face as I touch the frame on the door. I then close it behind me and wrap my arms around myself.

Dave's already gone, and I don't know where. But as I'm about to open the elevator, a thought dawns on me.

I quickly turn around and look for a nurse or receptionist to speak to. I have a question I'd like to ask.


	3. Part Three

**A/N: I'm just gonna leave this here. C:**

**Sorry about this chapter being shorter than the others, though. D: **

* * *

><p><em>Part Three.<em>

"Hello again, Lilah," I greet with an open smile. I place a card on her bedside table. I blush a little. "I drew it myself because I find homemade cards more thoughtful and sincere than store-bought ones. But I'm not a very good artist; I can really only draw cats. And sometimes dogs," I tell her.

She laughs and picks it up, reading it and admiring my childish illustrations. "Aw, I think it looks adorable. Thank you, Kurt," she says. She yawns, and her eyes have bags underneath them. "Sorry, I'm kinda tired today. My pain has been worse lately, so they've been giving me something to lessen it, but the drug makes me sleepy."

"And yet you look like you haven't rested," I remark with a slight frown.

Lilah nods. "That's because I haven't. I'm sleepy, but when I try to sleep, I can't fall asleep entirely because there's still a dull ache that won't go away, and it makes it impossible to get comfy enough to sleep when I lay down."

"I'm so sorry," I say, placing a hand on her shoulder for a moment.

Lilah shrugs the sentiment off. "Please don't say that. It's not like it's your fault."

I inhale sharply and hold my breath for a moment as I nod my head once, leaving it bowed. "No, but… I think there might be a way to help. The other day after I left your room I went and spoke to a few people in the hospital. And I set up an appointment today to get a few tests done."

Lilah is only a freshman in high school, hardly very experienced in certain things, but she knows medical procedures and is quick to pick up on my drift. "You didn't! Kurt, even though I appreciate the idea, you can't seriously have –"

"It's no use, Lilah; I already did it. I just came from the appointment." I raise my sleeve and show her my arm, where some of my blood was taken for testing. There's a band-aid in the crook of my left elbow.

She stares at it, and suddenly her eyes fill with tears. They quietly drip down her face. "You're a really generous person, Kurt. Too nice for your own good." She sniffles and looks up at my eyes. "Can you come here so I can hug you?"

"Sure," I answer softly. I get out of my seat and wrap my arms around her slim shoulders.

She sniffles again, and I can feel her tears through my shirt, warm and damp. "Thank you. You're hardly know me, but you're willing to help me."

"Of course I am," I tell her. "And to be honest, it's not just for you."

She breathes a small chuckle and releases me. I sit down again and see the amusement on her teary face. "Yeah, I guessed that. You're doing it for Dave and my dad, too. You want me to be all right for their sake and not just mine."

"Exactly," I say quietly.

"…That so?"

Lilah and I both turn to find Dave standing in the doorway of the ward, an odd expression on his face that is a mixture of too many things for me to put a name to it.

"I thought I saw you through the window in the door," Lilah says meekly. "I just wasn't sure."

"It was me all right," Dave utters slowly as he enters the room and closes the door behind him. "And am I getting this right? You did something, Kurt, and it was for Lilah… and me?"

And he looks a little more than concerned, his face tinting pink in the cheeks and a frown on his brows. I clear my throat and stand, facing him fully. "Um, yes. That's right. I went and got tested today to see if I am a match for her liver."

"You… what!" Dave bursts, and he sputters something for a moment before getting out, "How could –! –Do your parents even know?"

I take a small step toward him and ignore the anxious feeling I'm sensing behind me, coming from Lilah's cot. "Yes, both my dad and step-mom know, Dave. I told them right after I made the appointment, within enough time to cancel. But they told me that I'm over eighteen, which means that I can make decisions for myself. And that if I wanted to help Lilah, I could."

"But Kurt, you –"

"I care about Lilah," I tell him calmly, "And I care about you. I happen to be one of those people who give a damn once they've met someone and been introduced to their family, so you have to let me do this if I happen to be a match."

David sighs and runs a hand through his short, brown curls. His hazel eyes are glazed with unshed tears. There is suddenly a wobbly smile on his lips, and somehow I find the day-old stubble around his jaw and the quirk on his beauty mark from the shallow smile extremely attractive in this fraction of time. "This is way beyond my maturity level, dude."

I laugh a little, and so does Lilah. She smiles at the pair of us and looks relieved and also a little bit like she's watching a dramatized version of an old romantic comedy. But that's ridiculous; it must be my imagination.

Tension dissolved, Dave moves to come sit near us. "Goddamn. I thought I had you pegged, Kurt, but I should've known better. You're one of those self-sacrificing types, aren't you? The sort of guy who is too good-natured and too full of high morals to be real, and yet _is._ You religious, too?"

"Not in the least," I smile. "I might have been at one time, but that was before I love my mother and before I found out what the Bible says about gays."

"Yeah, I can understand that. But me? I like to have faith in something bigger than myself, gay and motherless myself or not," Dave remarks as he leans back in his chair. He looks over at Lilah and reaches out to shake her knee playfully, but gently. "How you feelin', kiddo?"

"Like I could really use some chocolate," Lilah whines. "But they won't let me have too much sugar or anything! They say that I have to keep my diet 'clean' for right now. What does that even _mean?_ My liver is failing, I'm not _diabetic! _My kidneys are _fine! _Uhg."

Dave just laughs heartily and gives her a peck on the forehead after leaning out of his seat. "You'll get over it. Know why?"

"Humph. Why?" she says, playing along.

"Because as soon as you're all better, I'm taking you out for chocolate ice cream. My treat," Dave tells her once again in that foreign, sweet tone he only uses with her.

"It's a date," she smirks. She gives him a weak punch in the (toned, but not that I'm looking) bicep. "You are seriously the coolest college-aged brother anyone could have. Most college guys in general are just… well, big drunks and potheads and slobs, but not _my_ brother~! –And not you either, Kurt, of course," she adds with a wink. She yawns again. "Ohh, and there goes my burst of energy. I'm gonna crash again."

"Finally tired enough to sleep, huh?" I say.

"Yeah," she says. "Thanks for visiting, you two. And tell Dad to get some sleep, Davey, because I know that he isn't. He must be a zombie at work."

"I will," Dave promises. He ruffles her hair – earning a, "Really, Dave? _Really_? I'm not a little boy! –And I haven't showered yet, so now it's gonna look all gross!" from Lilah – and then we leave the room at the same time. I give one last wave her wait, and even through her finger-combing she smiles at me and waves back, mouthing, 'thank you' as an afterthought just as I close the door.

"So," I propose as casually as possible while Dave and I pace out of the hospital, "Would you like to have lunch with me? I was planning on finding a Panera Bread somewhere for some soup and much-needed chai tea."

He chuckles a tad embarrassingly and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. "I actually have practice to go to in a few hours –"

"Aw, come on. You need something to eat to fuel those fires. I'll pay," I say, still trying to keep it casual. He needs a pick-me-up, and, well… I won't lie: I kind of like him.

And for once, the odds are in my favor, because he's within my sexuality and type range. – Yes, I'm a bit shallow; I like jocks. Sue me, but I have a thing for height and muscle, both of which Dave has on me, even if the height is by mere inches and the bulk is also part chub, but it's just a comfortable layer around his muscle, nothing unattractive. Quite the opposite, really, and I can't get it out of my head that I was lucky enough to meet a guy in college who's sweet _and _gay. Unlike many of my crushes in the past during high school and parts of junior high when all the guys I like were either sweet and straight or a jerk and straight, but always, _always_ athletic and attractive.

So yeah, I just met him earlier this week and I already like him, and he might only want to stay friends, but I can't help it; I want to spend more time with him.

Dave takes one long, sideways look at me before he caves in with a sigh. "All right, all right. But it has to be quick, okay? Like a drive-through at a fast food place. And then I need to get going so I have time to change and stuff before practice."

"Can do," I assure him. "MacDonald's it is."

"I prefer Wendy's."

"Wendy's it is," I correct, laughing. "And to be honest, I prefer Wendy's myself on the few select occasions that I actually indulge in fast food."

"I knew you must be a health nut," Dave laughs as we step out onto the pavement of the parking lot from the hospital sidewalk. "You're so skinny."

"I'm not _skinny,_ I'm _lithe,_" I retort huffily. "Being 'skinny' implies that I am too thin and almost sickly. I am perfectly healthy and I actually have some muscle, thank you. Enough to climb up onto and hang upside-down from monkey bars."

"Okay, okay; I take it back, then," Dave says with a falsely defensive tone and a smile in place. He laughs a little at my expense, and I feel myself pouting. "But really, I didn't mean to, like, offend you. You're just… I dunno, you look like you really _don't _eat out much unless you're ordering a salad. I, on the other hand…"

"What are you talking about? You look fine," I answer immediately, but a slight rise in blood on my cheeks betrays me. I had, after all, just been thinking about his build seconds ago.

He snorts. "Whatever you say," he tells me. "But whatever. I just have self-image issues. I'm such a girl." And this last bit is said with heavy resentment and disgust.

"Nonsense. Everyone has insecurities, but looks should never be one of them, in my opinion. Unless you count fashion; then it counts quite a bit. But the face and body people are given and how they choose to treat both is up to them, so no one should sit there and feel like they have to be like anyone else, if you understand my point."

"I think I do," Dave mumbles, shrugging. "But what that mostly sounded like was a bunch of crap. Everyone fusses over their looks, and with good reason. Because half the time, they can change how they look, but they're too lazy or depressed or both to do it. I happen to be the lazy sort."

"But what do you expect to look like? Me? Or a body-builder or model? That's impossible, Dave. Your body isn't built like mine, and body-building and modeling is hazardous to one's health, and isn't always attractive. So please, do me a favor and drop it. We're getting fast food, _both _of us, and we're going to share a laugh and forget about everything depressing and moot for the time being," I inform him with finality, and Dave raises both hands in the air in mock surrender as we reach our cars.

"Whoa, whoa! Okay, Kurt! God, you're a _fireball._ Remind me not to set you off again," Dave says, and there's a hint of a smirk in his voice even without one being on his face.

"Yeah, you better not," I tell him. I look at my car and notice that his isn't too far away. "Hey, did you park near me on purpose?"

"Um, sort of. I was looking for empty spots on this half of the hospital since my sister is here, and I spotted your license plates. I remember them from when you gave me a ride here the first time. I remember thinking, 'What guy in his right mind has the word 'diva' worked into his personalized plates?'"

I laugh and pat the hood of my car. "I can see that. I chose it when I was freshly sixteen with a driver's license, and that's back when I was a lot less mature and a lot more into becoming a famous Broadway star one day."

He cocks his head to the left a bit and shrugs. "Well, why aren't you?"

"I couldn't get into NYADA," I sigh. "There were other schools I could try with good programs, but then I found out that my best friend, Rachel, applied here, so I did the same, because I didn't want to be alone at a school anyway. And besides that, I realized that my true passion was in fashion and design, not necessarily in singing, even though I sound pretty good, if I do say so myself." I smile here, and Dave does the same.

"I bet you do. I mean, I kinda like to sing, but I'm more of a in-the-shower or in-my-car sort of singer than someone who can make it big. Plus, I love football too much to leave it. But hey, it's cool that you can sing and that you can, like, design clothes. I don't really have any talents like that," Dave says simply. He points a thumb back at his car. "So am I tailing you, then? 'Cause it's not like I'll have time at this rate to come back for it and still make it to practice."

"Oh, uh, yes. Follow me, and we can go in together, order, eat, and depart," I say, waving my hands in the air for a moment as I turn and unlock my vehicle.

"Cool," Dave agrees with a smile, and soon, we're starting our cars and heading out of the parking lot, tagging along with one another, nearly having a race.

I make it to Wendy's first, but only by milliseconds. Once inside, Dave orders something disgustingly full of meat and empty calories (a triple-stack Baconator with medium fries and a large chocolate Frosty-float mixed with root beer), whilst I order something simple and not quite as fattening (two five-piece chicken nuggets and a diet Sprite).

"That's all your getting?" he says with a laugh as we take our trays of food and sit down at a small table for two.

"Well, yes. It was either this or one set of nuggets and one small fry, but without a vanilla Frosty to dip my fries into, I find them useless," I return as I pop a nugget into my mouth.

"…Then why not just get the damn Frosty?" Dave wonders.

"Oh, I couldn't. I already had my sugar intake for the day when I had some sugary cereal this morning," I say quietly.

"Oh, my God. I swear that I am never going to bother to eat 'healthy,' because that is just ridiculous. How many times to you go to Wendy's?"

"Not often," I say shyly, looking atg my food and not his face.

"Then you should at least get one of those mini-Frosties! The ones that are, like, four bites in total. That's it, I'm getting you one," he says, and stands from the table. "And a dollar-menu fry, too."

"What? David, no –" I protest, but he's already halfway to the register.

I sigh and move one of my cups of nuggets to his tray. He can have them if I'm going to eat what he's buying for me. I pick up my soda and sip at it. At least this is diet; I feel less guilty about that.

"Here," Dave says, handing me a small vanilla Frosty and the tiny paper bag of fries. "And why are your nuggets on my tray? You bought 'em, so you're eating 'em, too. I dare you." And he smirks.

"What! I am above dares," I retort.

"You're in college, Kurt. And in my book, that means you're still in the dare-taking age range. So g'head, chow down. I bet I can finish all my good before you can even get to your second round of nuggets," Dave challenges, smiling broader. "Act like a college boy for once and pig out."

"While everything you just said is completely absurd and offensive, I am going to prove you wrong," I tell him with narrowed eyes. "You have way more food than me, which means I can certainly finish before you."

"You're on," Dave says, laughing. "But I'm a champ at scarfing down food, Kurt. I've had years of practice."

"We'll see about that."

And sure enough, in way too short of time – mere minutes, which is sickening, really – I am able to consume all of my chicken nuggets, fries, and Frosty. I'm sucking down on my soft drink to wash it all down while Dave is still on his last three French fries.

"Damn! I've never seen a little guy like you pack it away so quick! I must say: I am impressed," David laughs. He drinks his Frosty-float down the remainder of the way and scoops out the last bite of ice cream in it as it he does so. Then our trays are empty of food and I have only felt this full during Thanksgiving. I'm almost sick, because it feels like a rock in my gut already, but at the same time, I feel a little smidge of dumb pride and victory, so I smile and bear the slight discomfort.

"And I must say: I am disgusted. I have never acted so much unlike myself before. If I never do it again it will be too soon," I groan, and Dave smiles even broader. I smile back, however, because he looks so cute like that, spirits lifted and mind eased.

"Oh, shit," he says suddenly, looking to his watch. "If I don't leave right now, Coach will kick my ass. I'm already on thin ice for leaving a game before. I hate to eat and run, but I'll see ya soon, 'kay, Kurt? Thanks for lunch."

"No problem," I say as I look up at him. He's standing and slinging on his jacket, taking his tray to dump on the way out. Once he's gone, I'm picking up my tray and dumping it into the trash myself, placing the brown tray where it goes. I feel a little foolish as I slink back out into the parking lot toward my car. I had gotten what I wanted – I cheered up Dave – but I think part of me was hoping that us going to lunch would turn into a date, but I was wrong. It didn't mean anything, and I wonder, now, if he likes me at all the way I like him. His sister seems to thinks so, but… I don't know.

Sighing, I get into my car and drive back to my dorm. I have some homework I should probably do.

0o0o0

Later that night, I get a text from Dave. He says something about wondering if I wanted to come to his next game (he would pay for my ticket, because student discount or not, it's kind of pricey) and maybe grab a bite to eat afterward. I tell myself over and over as I reply to the text that he means as friends, not as a date. I agree to it, even though I could care less about the football scene. When I ask him where we'll be eating afterward, he just says that he has a place in mind.

And then it's settled. I have my weekend planned for me, and I feel a little bubbly about it.

I only hope that the result I'll get for my tests within the next couple of days doesn't ruin it.

-0-


	4. Part Four

**A/N: As I thought, this will most likely be five chapters long. So here, have the second-before-last bit! **

**Reviews would be great pre-Christmas gifts. ;D**

* * *

><p><em>Part Four.<em>

My classes are the easiest parts of my days this week. The roughest parts are waiting for the call that could dictate so much of what will transpire between the Karofskys and me. I'm a volunteer, labeled as a friend of the family, but after me, they're about out of options and will have to resort to the donor list, and it can take a while, and already Lilah is looking and acting so much sicker.

I go to see her on Thursday morning before one of my classes begin, but she's asleep and sweating through a fever, her eyes ringed in purple and her skin noticeably a shade more yellow than I've seen on her. She's fighting it, a nurse informs me, but she's getting weaker very quickly. She would have a better chance were she older, the nurse also says. And it tugs on my heartstrings so strongly that I don't eat anything for the remainder of the afternoon, my stomach nauseous with emotion.

Thursday evening, however, I get the call.

I'm a match.

I have the same blood type and a similar metabolism and all these other things that I don't fully understand, but pretend to as I nod and say 'uh-huh' over and over again into the phone. The doctor sounds compassionate, yet still factual, somehow. Upon hearing the news that I can save Lilah's life and that they want to sign me up for a surgical date, I'm not sure how I feel.

I tell the doctor that I will get back to him within the hour about the date, but that I need to inform my parents first. He understands and hangs up. I sit on my bed – top bunk, lucky me – and feel the room spin around me.

(I probably should have eaten something earlier, if only to anchor myself.)

I try to slow my breathing to a normal pace. Then I call my dad.

He's worried, of course, and he threatens that he will sue if something goes wrong, but he also tells me that he's going to drive up here for the surgery, so I should trey to schedule it on a weekend. He tells me that I'm brave and that he's proud of me. And then he puts Carole, my step-mom, on the phone. She cries a little and tells me that she'll pray for everything to turn out all right.

"I know it will," I assure her. "Because it has to." There are too many people on the line here, not just Lilah and myself.

I hesitate before dialing any other number afterward. The doctor… or Dave. I wonder if I should even tell him the surgery date once I know it? It might worry him too much, and he has so much on his plate already…

But it would be wrong not to, wouldn't it?

I wind up calling the doctor and setting up the appointment. We schedule it for this weekend on Sunday, at eight in the morning. It's the latest we can go before Lilah becomes too ill, he says. And it's a good thing, too, because waiting for another donor might have been too late. I shudder at the thought.

I have to eat healthy and keep my system 'clean' until Sunday. No alcohol – not that I drink anyway, and I'm not even of age – and no meds above aspirin within forty-eight hours of surgery, and no meds at all within twenty-four hours of surgery. He tells me a bunch of other steps that I have to do, and I listen to every last word.

Near the end of the call, however, I request one small thing. "Um, doc? Might I ask a favor?"

"I suppose. What is it?"

I nibble on my lip for a second. "When you call the Karofsky residence and tell them that you've found a match for their daughter, can you not say whether or not it's me? I don't want to worry them too much. Especially not the patient's brother; he's a friend of mine, you see."

"I do see," the doctor relays slowly. "All right, then: you have my word. I won't say a thing, even if they ask. I'll only tell them that there is a donor and when the surgery will be. I can use my doctor-patient confidentiality against them if I must," he jokes lightly.

I exhale softly in relief. "Thank you. It's just… I want to tell them myself. My friend has a game this weekend, and I'd hate for him to be anxious and unfocused the entire time."

"Ah, I know how that is. I respect that. Thank you for your courage, Mr. Hummel. Goodbye," the doctor says, and there's that word again. Is what I'm doing really so courageous? It just feels like it's something anyone in my situation would try to do…

I proceed to call my father, tell him the date, and he tells me that he'll be here in a motel by Saturday afternoon. Carole and Finn will be here, too, he says. I feel a wave of relief wash over me like spring rain at that. I even smile a little, tears being blinked from my eyelashes.

With a deep breath, I give Rachel the latest news. I've been keeping her filled in here and there during the one class we have together.

"I'm telling you, you're being too selfless again, Kurt. Like that time you let Blaine have the lead role for West Side Story just because he was a good friend of yours, or that time you gave up on Finn because you saw how happy your dad was with Carole, or even –"

"I get the point, Rachel." I say with a roll of my eyes.

"Still! This is serious. I didn't think it would actually happen, but…" and she drifts off for a moment. Sighing, she says, "You truly are a brave soul, Kurt Hummel. Even in the face of the entire school during junior prom when you were named Queen. It's just _insane _what you put up with and how you handle things! I could never do it myself."

Prom was both a bad and good memory for me. At the time, Finn was back together with a pretty little blonde named Quinn, and Rachel decided that she didn't need him and would just go with me instead. Our friend Puck somehow got written in as King because he's that likable punk that's a bit of a class clown and a player yet everyone likes, and I cruelly got written in as Queen, but Rachel was there for me and got me to gather up the courage to go up on stage and accept it. It was bizarre, but it was real.

Which is a lot like this, I suppose. So Rachel has a point. Yet there's that phrase again, the notion that I'm being some hero. I shake my head. "I'm not a '_brave soul,_' Rachel. I'm just doing what I feel is right."

"'What's right?' Kurt, donating blood is 'right,' but not everyone can do it because some people are squeamish, others go into shock, and some just don't care enough to do it. Which means that this is _huge, _because it's not just a pint or so of blood you're giving up, it's a whole lobe of your _liver, _a major organ!" she exclaims. "I'm sorry, because I respect what you're doing, but you've only known this girl and her brother for about a week, and already you're putting your life on the line for them."

"It's not my life on the line, Rachel, _jeez._ And yes, it has only been that long, but they mean a lot to me. If you just met Lilah, you'd want to give up part of your liver for her, too. She's sassy and bright and _beautiful. _ When she grows up, she'll be a _knockout,_ and I want her to reach that point. She loves romance, Rachel, and I want her to be able to live long enough to _have_ it. And poor Dave… he already lost his mother. I can't imagine what would happen to him if he lost his little sister, too," I tell her softly.

Rachel sighs loudly into the phone. "No, no… I get that. I do. It's just… _scary,_ Kurt. Aren't you scared? I would be_ terrified_."

"To tell you the truth?" I whisper, cradling the phone close to my face, "I _am _scared, Rach. Scared out of my wits. I hear all sorts of horrible stories about operations going wrong. But I need to do this." My voice drops to its lowest, most dire tones. "I just _have_ to."

"Okay, Kurt. Okay," she says with some shock, and a lot of kindness. "I trust your judgment. I just want you to be all right, that's all. You're young, too. You have your life ahead of you nearly as much as she does."

"Wonderful, I'm glad you can agree with me," I smile gently, ignoring the last bit on purpose. "But I'm not going to die. Although… it might help if you were, you know, there after it was all over and done with. I would love you forever if there were some flowers involved as well. Something vibrant and fragrant, because hospitals are so very plain."

She laughs a little and agrees easily. "Yes, yes. Of course, Kurt. I wouldn't do anything less fabulous."

"Thanks, Rachel," I tell her. We hang up shortly after that.

And then I muster up some strength (talking to Rachel did somehow calm me down, though) to call Dave. I breathe deeply for a moment as I select his contact information on my phone and hit 'call.'

It rings a few times, yet he doesn't pick up his phone. He must be busy, or can't hear it ring. It goes to voicemail. _"Hey, you've reached Dave Karofsky's cell. Sorry I didn't catch your call, but if you leave a message I'll get back to you a.s.a.p.!"_

I don't leave a message. I think all I wanted to hear was his voice, anyway.

I decide that it's better if follow my initial plan and tell him after his big game on Saturday. I can tell him over dinner. That way he won't be too distracted while he plays, and there won't be a repeat of the way we met. I worry for a second that his father or even his sister might tell him before I can, but I did ask the doctor to keep my identity as a secret. I groan, suddenly, when I realize that my father will be there and he might spill the beans, too.

Oh, well; at least it will be after I've told Dave the news myself. So everything should work out.

_I hope._

0o0o0

"Great night tonight, huh? I smell a bonfire nearby. And it's not even that cold!" Dave chuckles as he walks alongside me toward the field. "Well, here's where we split. I gotta get to the locker room. Thanks for coming early."

"Sure thing," I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes.

Dave glances at the night sky for a moment, then back at me. "Later!"

I nod and watch him rush off. A shiver runs through me, so I wrap my (highly stylish) scarf tighter around my neck. I should have worn a warmer coat, but of course I chose fashion over practicality again. I sigh and just barely see my breath. "Pff, yeah, sure; not that cold for you, maybe, but I'm not some hot-blooded athlete!" I huff as I try to find a place among the bleachers.

The game is an adrenaline rush this time around, now that I have someone to root for. I keep track of Dave's number the entire time, watching him back up the quarterback and huddle in the group between plays. It's amazing, really, how quickly I actually catch onto the game when I'm watching someone in specific.

I cheer until my voice gets raspy, my throat sore with a slight chill, and my cheeks feel pink and so does my nose by the time the game is over, and its much later into the evening. Dave's team loses the game, sadly, but only by about three points, which is bogus. No one seems very chipper after that, except Dave himself. He comes up to me and seems unusually okay with the loss.

I follow him out to his truck (we carpooled) and glance over at him. He changed back into his normal clothes, and his hair is a little wet; he must have showered off the sweat and dirt, which was polite of him. "I had hoped we could celebrate a win, but whatever. At least we're getting a bite to eat anyway. I'm starved."

"You're not as bothered by the loss as I thought you would be," I say.

He shrugs. "Nah, guess not. It doesn't matter to me that much. I'm… well, I care about more important things than a college football game. I gave it my all out there, don't get me wrong, but because I did, I don't feel as bad about the loss, you know?"

"I guess that makes sense, even if I don't know sports that well. I just see people in the movies always go into rages over losing games, so perhaps the media misled me," I shrug as well.

Dave laughs heartily and slips on the letterman jacket he had been holding over his arm since we left the field. "Nah, that's about right. A lot of my friends were pretty miffed, but I'm just… _not._ I dunno," he says. He looks over at me and smiles. "So, where you wanna eat? There are about a million places around here that are all pretty decent."

"I'm feeling… Italian," I say. "Pizza, maybe. But a place a bit more upscale than Pizza Hut or Papa's John's would be nice."

"There's a Rosati's nearby," Dabe suggests.

"Perfect," I say.

He licks his lips. "Awesome. I kill for their Chiefs. It's like an Italian beef sub with seasoned mozzarella cheese melted in this thick layer on top, and it's pretty much the greatest sandwich on the planet."

A chuckle erupts from my mouth. "If you say so."

"I'm serious! That sandwich is something I could live on if, you know, obesity and heart-attacks and scurvy weren't in existence," Dave informs me, a humorous smile on his face. "I used to get one every Friday with my dad before Mom died. It was our family thing: we would order out Rosati's every Friday, rent a movie, and get a pack of pop to share."

"I love it when families have tradition like that," I say mildly. "I just wish my family had done something similar. The only traditions we have are during the holidays." I sigh and suddenly find myself shivering again.

"Cold?" Dave asks, concerned.

"Nah, I'm fine. Just hungry. So let's hurry up and find your car and get some food in our bellies," I reply. Dave nods, and soon we're in his car, the engine pumping heat into my face, and it feels like a warm blanket. I soak it up and soon find myself watching Dave's profile while he drives. He looks so… stern. Solemn. Some might call it being focused, or a cautious driver, but I know better. In this silence, he's thinking about his sister and her surgery scheduled for tomorrow.

I nibble on my lip and force myself to look out the window. I don't want to tell him while we're on the road, but I might ruin our meals if I tell him over dinner like I planned. I just… I want him to be as carefree as possible until the absolute last moment. But how can I do that, when I know it will be worse if he hears the news from my father tomorrow instead?

Dave pulls into the parking lot of the Rosati's – this one a quaint little sit-in pizza joint – and shuts off the car. He's about to open his door when I open my big, fat mouth.

"About your sister's surgery tomorrow –"

"How did you know about that?" Dave mutters, cutting me off. He stares at me oddly, his confusion giving way to horror. "I didn't… I haven't mentioned it at all to you, so how did you know? Did someone tell you?"

I could lie. I could easily say that his father called me, or that I visited his sister yesterday or earlier today and she told me, but I'm not a liar. "No. I set up the appointment myself."

Dave sinks back into his seat and stares at the steering wheel for a long moment. Outside, I can hear a family getting out of their mini-van, walking up to the restaurant for a late supper. The son, I see in my door's window, is holding a flag for Dave's team. They came from the game, too. And the silence as I watch them out of the corner of my eye and wait for Dave to say something is an unbearable one.

Finally, Dave licks his lips and inhales, and I look over at him. He slowly looks me in the eye and says, "You're it, aren't you? The donor. The match they found."

"Yes," I say quietly, my voice cracking on the short word.

Dave nods and his brows come together, and his breathing picks up. "Yes. Yes, of course you are. Of course that's how this had to go down, because isn't it just _perfect _and _fated _that I meet a guy who just so happens to be a match for my baby sister, but also happens to be my first possible boyfriend, and _of course_ it happens all at once and before I even have a _say_ in it!" He suddenly smashes the heel of his hand on the wheel, making the horn honk while he curses loudly. "Fucking _Hell!_"

"Dave –" I try to soothe, my hand reaching out for his shoulder.

"No!" he counters, turning halfway in his seat to look me flush in the face. "No, Kurt! There's no fixing this now! How did you think I would react, huh? Just smile and say, 'oh, cool, thanks for saving my sister, that's really thoughtful of you?' _No._ I'm… God, I don't even know _how _I feel, but I'm _not _okay. Because this? This is not okay, not at _all._"

He yanks on the handle of the door and kicks it open, flying out and slamming the car door shut before I even have time to react.

Shakily, I unbuckle my seat belt and follow suit, slipping out of my seat quietly and closing the door normally. I jog a little to catch up with his long, angry strides. I'm suddenly not very hungry.

Inside, we place our order and find a place to sit. There is red and white-checkered tablecloth and posters all over the walls. There's a parmesan cheese shaker beside the salt and pepper and hot-pepper flakes in the center, and Dave and I are in a little booth along the wall, red faux-leather covering our benches.

Our food is brought out, but I hardly touch mine. I mostly sip at my fountain drink and keep track of how many times Dave looks at me. I can count on one hand how many times it is. We don't speak, and I think someone notices, because one woman looks at us oddly as she passes by to go to the restroom.

Finally, when it comes down to either getting a small dessert or leaving, I choose to once again pipe up. What comes out of my mouth isn't at all what I had been thinking about saying since we sat down. "Did you mean what you said in the car?" I murmur timidly, "About me being your first possible boyfriend?"

Dave looks up, and for the first time since the car, he looks directly at me and doesn't advert his gaze. "Yeah," he says in a surrendering tone. He sighs and sits up straight. "Yeah, I meant that."

"You've really… never dated before?" I say, surprised. Even I've had one boyfriend. It was Blaine, a guy who moved into town during my sophomore year. We wound up being good friends, tried dating one another since we were the only gays we knew and since we liked each other well enough, but realized we worked better without the romance and went back to being friends. But he hasn't even had something like _that_?

"Fuck no," Dave snorts. "Are you kidding? I was a closeted asshole throughout high school, and only when I realized that I was taking my bullying too far did I actually stop and sit there and think about what I was doing. And that's when I decided that I would be Out in college, and so far, I've done that. But that means that I've never had the chance to find any gay guys I'd like to get to know and maybe like enough to date. And trust me, I've met a handful, and most of them just annoyed me or didn't even care about saying two words to me."

I wince slightly. "Oh. I see," I mumble. Looking down at my hands twisted around one another, I say, "But you…" I clear my throat and flicker my gaze to his. "You wanted to… with me?"

He looks both a bit embarrassed and a bit humbled. "Well, yeah. I mean, Kurt, you – You gotta know when you get dressed and do your hair and stuff every morning that you're attractive. And come on, you're _funny. _Like, sarcastic, dry-humored, obscure-referenced funny, and super smart. But above all that… you're really considerate. Shit, I mean – you're _going into surgery tomorrow _for my fucking _little sister."_ He scrubs his scalp for a moment with his fingertips, ruffling his short curls. His voice is soft when he says, "What's there not to love about you?"

I'm in a state of awe, gawking at him with my lips parted and jaw hanging slightly slack. My eyes search his face, and he stares right back at me, looking torn between emotions.

He smiles minutely. "Jeez. I can't even stay mad at you. But I guess I wasn't really mad, I was just… _sad. _I actually give a shit whether or not something happens to you, almost as much as I care about something like Lilah's body rejecting a transplant happens to her."

"Oh, I'll be fine," I say with an unstable smile, pretending to wave it away. "Livers regenerate, and I'm in pretty good health. Try not to worry about anyone but Lilah, okay? Because you'll still have me once this is all over. We're… friends, aren't we?"

"I was hoping to eventually be more than that, but yeah, we are," Dave jokes, but I can tell that he's being sincere. He awkwardly slides out of his seat and starts to put on his letterman. "So, um. Wanna get out of here?"

"Yes, I do," I say with a smile. "Maybe we can go back to one of our dorms and talk for a while."

"…What about? –And please don't say tomorrow, because I'd rather we cross that bridge when we come to it," Dave groans.

I shake my head. "No, I was thinking more along the lines of everyday stuff, and – and we could always discuss what we'll do for our first real date." And I wink at him, and Dave smiles in a way I've never seen before, but kind of like.

"Oh, sure. Yeah. We can definitely do that," he tells me. "My roommate is usually out on Saturday nights, so my dorm works. That okay?"

"Certainly," I agree with a smile. I loop my arm through his elbow where it sticks out on his side, his hands hidden in his letterman pockets. Dave's step almost becomes lighter as he feels my weight on his arm, and he seems much better. I'm glad; I hated seeing him sulk, being nothing but a wall of gloom. I prefer this, and the thought of becoming his boyfriend. I could really get used to the idea of being able to kiss him on a whim; he looks like a good kisser, and not because of his lips, but because of his hands, and how he'd hold me.

I shiver a bit with excitement.

"Now are you cold?" Dave asks. "'Cause I have an extra jacket in the truck."

I feel myself blush. "Oh, uh, no, I'm fine." Not cold at all; I'm too warm now, as a matter of fact. I cough into one of my gloves and remove my arm from his as we near the truck's doors.

"You'll like my dorm room," Dave says idly. "We have a stereo that doubles as a karaoke machine. And you like to sing, right?"

I laugh. "Very much. And so I am going to challenge you to a sing-off; the one to get the most words wrong or the most keys off first has to pay for our first date."

"You're on, fancy-pants!"

0o0o0

When I get back to my own dormitory, I shuffle up the stairs and collapse onto my bunk once I've finished getting ready for bed. My roommate is on his laptop, clicking away as he IMs some of his friends. I roll onto my side and curl up thinking about two rather conflicting things: my wonderful night with Dave, complete with thrilling football, emotional roller coaster dinner, playful competition, and meaningful conversation. I won the sing-off, naturally; but I think Dave had planned on being the one to ask me out and pay for our first date anyhow, so he was indifferent about his loss, much like he was earlier this evening.

But then… the conflict lies in my other train of thought, the one that isn't content with recapping my night and is instead upset about tomorrow. It's going to be a long, stressful day, and during the coming week, very worrisome. And not really about me, either; while I'm intimidated by being cut open and having a piece of me removed, I am more concerned about Lilah. I desperately want her body to accept my tissue and work on making her better again, stronger than ever. Because if she dies… then everything will be in vain, and worse still, that sort of loss will weigh heavy on me, and even heavier on David. And I can't bear to think about _that._

With a sigh, I close my eyes and try to think back to the better things, my earbuds in place and my iPod playing softly in my ears to help lull me to sleep, using those thoughts as guide toward my dreams.

_Tomorrow, _I think somewhere in the mist of my mind as I'm half asleep, _Tomorrow… _And some distant part of me curses that thought for daring to enter my head like a seed of doubt, but at least my conscious is clear. Dave knows that I'm the donor, Lilah has a solution to her illness, and the Karofskys have hope. And as I fall asleep, that's all good enough for me.


	5. Part Five

**/N: This was always meant to be a wrap-up chapter, so I apologize for not getting it written and posted before Christmas and New Year's. But hey, it's up now, and I'm all eager to watch the return of Supernatural tonight, and so I actually felt like writing, heehee. ^^;**

**Anyway, thanks for sticking with this story! :D **

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><p><em>Part Five.<em>

I take in a deep, shaky breath as I enter the hospital, my father by my side. I shamelessly grab onto him as I get closer to the front desk to check in for my appointment.

And from there, it all happens a little too quickly for me to really register.

There's the blur of the waiting period as everything is being set up in the surgical room. There's the deadpan expression I see being worn on my dad and Dave's dad, and the purposeful absence of Dave himself. (But the fact that he isn't here makes me more anxious than I was minutes prior.)

And then it happens really, really slowly, as if in a fog, but it feels like time is speeding by, and the contradiction leaves my head spinning.

I'm put into my own room on a bed that is more mobile than the others. After a while, they move me into another room, and I see Lilah on a bed beside me. She offers a weak smile and reaches out for my hand. She looks awful. I force a smile in return and touch fingertips with her for a second. And then they feed me a line through an IV, and they give one to Lilah in her arm as well. I feel woozy and drugged, heavy like a whale for a long moment, and then the lights are out and nobody's home.

0o0o0

When I wake, I slowly become aware of a few sensations. One of which is a full bladder. My first instinct is to get up and go pee, but that seems impossible, because I ache in the exact place that helps me sit up, and feel like lead all over, and then there's this thing on me that I slowly figure out is a line that leads to a bag. I suppose I won't need to worry about reliving myself manually for a while.

The next sensation is a dull ache and a tight pull on my abdomen. I sluggishly lift the collar of my hospital gown and look down. A row of neat stitches is on my abdomen, and maybe it's my imagination, but it does feel like I'm a little emptier inside. But I could just be hungry. Although, my throat is dry enough that I know I'm at least thirsty. I lick my lips and rub my eyes to clear them as I look around.

"Kurt? You're awake!" my father greets me with a wide smile. "I'm glad. Everything went well, I think. You look tired and a little sweaty, but just fine. You'll recover quickly, I bet."

I don't even nod at his words. Instead, I open my mouth and ask with a croaking voice, "What about Lilah?" The drugs make me feel like I'm sick. I lick my lips again. "Did she make it? Is she all right?"

"The doctor said that it looks like she took it well, and she's resting up right now, like you were," he explains to me gently, still faintly smiling. There is relief written all over his face. "Of course, we won't know for another couple days or so if her body's going to reject it or not. But I don't think it will. I think this did it."

I nod, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Is Dave okay?" I also need to ask. "Did he show up?"

My dad's face falls like a leaf from a branch: in degrees. He leans back in his chair and lifts his hat to run his hand over his balding head. "He did. He should be with his sister right now."

My words quake embarrassingly as I dare to ask one more thing. "Did he come see me at all?"

I don't know what answer I expect. I could be thinking unclearly because of the medication or the disorientation of having just gone through surgery or even because my emotions are getting in the way. But I have this awful feeling that maybe Dave only cared about me because I could help his sister, and that's why he's with her and not me right now.

But I quickly banish that thought because it really is ridiculous. His sister is his family, his blood; and she's the one who needed this in the first place, and my liver is healthy and will be back to its normal size in no time. So of course he's checking on her first, and for a long while. He might even be waiting for her to wake up.

But my father's response shocks me when it finally comes. He smiles a minute, knowing smile, and informs me: "Are you kidding? Son, you're the first person he asked to see when he came into the hospital."

And suddenly something blossoms within me and I get the feeling that Dave loves me, even in so short an amount of time we've known one another.

I smile broadly and nod. "Oh, okay then." And I lean back and close my eyes. I fall asleep again, satisfied.

0o0o0

"You know, I actually thought there would be more drama. Like something would go wrong during or after the surgery, or that something else bad would happen. Or maybe that everything would be stretched infinitely and –"

"Yeah, you thought all that because you're such a drama queen, Kurt. But come on, life isn't always that bad. It had its rough patches, but things do lighten up in the end," Dave assures me as he helps me to my feet. Today I get to leave the hospital. And in another day or so, they're going to release Lilah, too. They just want to monitor her recovery progress a while longer, just to be safe.

I hold onto the slightly taller boy with a bit more affection than necessary. Dave notices and glances down at me.

"You know, you can let go now. I think you can stand all right on your own," he says, incapable of hiding his growing smile. It's the first smile I've seen on him since before my surgery. He seems a lot more optimistic, now.

"But I like being in your arms. Why would I want to leave them?" I tease, leaning against him more. He chuckles and shrugs it off, his ears red.

"You're so weird," he says, but I can tell that he doesn't mind. We walk down the corridor together like that, his arm around my shoulder and both of my arms around his torso. He shows me into Lilah's room, and when we enter, she's awake and reading a teen magazine.

She doesn't look up, but she knows we're here. She smiles a little and remarks as she flips a page, "I don't know why they gave me this crap to read. I made Dad go home and get me some real books, because the nurses mean well but don't seem to realize that not every girl my age likes this silly magazines. I mean, seriously: what do I care which celeb is dating whom and whether or not Justin Bieber is losing fans? Because I really _don't _care. At all. But the quizzes are fun. Apparently, I have poor studying habits."

"Good to see you back to normal, Ly," David says gently, sitting down at her bedside. I've never heard him use that nickname for her before. But it seems to be one she hears all the time, because she doesn't even bat an eyelash over it.

"You know that I'm never 'normal,'" she jokes, tossing aside the magazine and gesturing at herself for a hug. Dave gives her one, but it's as if he's hugging hollow glass, careful not to crush it. It's adorable. "Mm. I missed your hugs. You haven't given me many since I got sick this time around."

"Sorry. I'll remember to hug you more often, then," Dave says, kissing her forehead.

She shoves him off. "Ew! No thanks! Doting older brothers are cute in theory and all, but I need my space, bro!" she jokes, laughing a little. But her laughter turns into whimpers and she stops, her hand over her side and her face twisted into a wince. "Uhg. Quit making me laugh, it hurts."

"You did that damage yourself," Dave reminds. "I didn't make you laugh! All I did was peck your forehead!"

She smiles. "I know." And then, finally, Lilah looks past Dave, directly at me. She looks so young, suddenly, and so small. "My hero," she says, smile softening into something gentle. She looks tired and pale, but no longer yellow, and no longer purple-eyed. "Come over here, will you, Kurt? I want to thank you."

I blush a little and nod my head. Stepping closer, I say shyly, "But you don't really need to – I mean, I'm no hero. I just thought I would try, and when I turned out to be a match, it just seemed like the right thing to do." I grip the bedrail on her cot, Dave peering over at me from the other side, but I keep my eyes trained to Lilah's face. "Your father or brother would have done the same thing. And any other donor on the list would have –"

"No, you're wrong. It takes a certain kind of person to volunteer like you did, Kurt. So thank you, truly. I owe you one. If you ever need some blood for a transfusion…" And she winks. But she's also gesturing for me to come closer. When I do, she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down slightly to kiss my cheek and murmur, "You saved us both. Me… and my brother. So thanks."

I pretend not to know the implications of the second part, about David. I simply hug her back and give her a small kiss in her hair before pulling away. "Yeah. Sure," I reply, mystified.

Lilah smiles, looking between us. "This is great. Now I have two older brothers who care about me. I'm really lucky, you know."

And it's around then that both our fathers come in, announcing that, once Lilah and I are healed enough to be out and about, our stitches removed and our matching scars on the road to becoming a faded memory, they're going to jointly pay for a big night out for both our families in celebration of the success. We'll have dinner and see a movie and apparently my dad is going to get some fireworks to set off in Mr. Karofsky's back yard.

And it all sounds rather fantastic to me, because I've been in the hospital about a week or so now, and Lilah has a while yet to go, and we both need to take it easy at home for a while, but at least we have that to look forward to.

But Dave leans over to me after the announcement and says, "Yeah, we'll do that, but now that you're out of the hospital, I'm coming over to keep an eye on you, and have our own celebration. How about a night in? Popcorn, a good kickback sort of movie, and a warm blanket to share?"

I grin and look up at him. "Sounds like a date."

"It is," he confirms. "'Cause I said that I wanted to… right?"

"Yes, you did," I agree with a smirk. And he leans down and kisses me, right there in front of our parents and his sister.

"You owe me ten bucks, Dad," Lilah says.

My own father raises a brow, and I feel myself flush. "You bet your daughter whether or not our sons would get together?"

"It was a gift for her. I knew she'd win, so I agreed to it," Mr. Karofsky shrugs as he takes out his wallet and hands his daughter a ten-dollar bill. "And anyway, you can't tell me you didn't see it coming."

"No, I did," my dad says with a sigh, "But I just didn't want to think about it."

I share an embarrassed laugh with Dave, but I see this all as the beginning of a beautiful relationship, and not just the romantic one between David and me.

.00


End file.
